


They're Just Fantasies

by BellaFuckingRockwell



Category: House M.D.
Genre: BDSM, Choking, Dom/sub, Eventual Fluff, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Love, M/M, Mild Angst, Rape Fantasy, Rough Sex, no real non-con, very brief episode related self harm reference
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-01
Updated: 2019-10-01
Packaged: 2020-11-07 20:29:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20823350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BellaFuckingRockwell/pseuds/BellaFuckingRockwell
Summary: 18+ ONLY. DO NOT READ OR OTHERWISE INTERACT WITH MY CONTENT IF YOURE UNDER 18.Summary: House hasn't slept all night and his pain level is way above Vicodin's pay grade, so he turns to a more “natural” method to cope. But maybe there's more going on in his mind than he cares to admit.(This is my first House fic, and it's technically House/Wilson despite the tags. I've messed with very small aspects of canon to fit the story. There's a lot of kink because that's what I do, but there's also hurt/comfort and fluff (because I like those things a lot). No actual non-con takes place at all, but one scene does depict characters playing out a rape fantasy, so please read the tags and avoid this one if you spot anything that might be triggering.)





	They're Just Fantasies

It's 5am, and sunrises really aren't all they're cracked up to be. House knows Wilson is the type to think they're romantic, even if he'd never admit it for the much deserved ridicule that would fly his way. Shame he's still fast asleep in the bedroom. He might have just missed the only opportunity he'll ever get for them to watch one together. How terrible.

The living room is dim, touched with a musty grey hue as day breaks. House is never awake at this hour, unless he's not slept at all, which is only ever for two reasons: a particularly baffling case, or his leg. This morning, it's the latter. Perched on the sofa, he becomes aware of his hand absently stroking the infarction site through his pyjama pants, and wonders why the hell he's doing that. As great as it would be if his fingers were little tubes of topical opiates, even that probably wouldn't work this morning. Why is it so bad? He's popped a ridiculous amount of Vicodin even by his standards and it won't let up at all. Might be a good idea to run a liver function test later.

He growls. He could wake Wilson. Get him to give him a morphine shot. Nah – that goody two shoes doesn't carry controlled drugs outside of work. The thought of waiting until it's time to actually go there is unbearable. Three more hours of this? 

He could still wake Wilson anyway. He won't mind if House wants to talk shit with him until it's time for him to begin his morning grooming routine, which took forty six minutes the last time House timed it just so he could rub the number in his face. He's more high maintenance than a damn supermodel.

Still, best not to wake Wilson. Bad idea for him to think that House needs him. Feeding his white knight complex would only be doing him a disservice, after all.

What House does need, he decides, is endorphins. How can he release endorphins at this hour? His eyes stray around the room. It offers him nothing. Kitchen? Sharp things? He entertains the thought for half a second, until it dawns on him that if Cameron sees he's been cutting again she'll only run crying to Cuddy and he doesn't want this day to get any worse than it's already going to be. Plus, not getting up off the couch until he absolutely has to start the day seems like a good plan.

House weighs up his options. Something that releases endorphins... something he can do without moving, and something he can do without getting into trouble later. One thing is glaringly obvious, but how the hell is he meant to get aroused in this state? Still, it's worth a try. Almost reluctantly, he peels back the waistband of his pyjama pants and reaches for the very flaccid, very uninterested cock within. He grimaces as he takes it in his hand, closing his eyes and trying to take his mind somewhere else. Anywhere is preferable to his front room with his half empty Vicodin bottle and fucked up leg, no matter how weird things get.

**

House can discern just from looking at Chase what his kinks are. In fact, he's so obvious about it, it's kind of tragic. Of course he'd be all over getting ordered around and humiliated, taking everything he's given in his desire to please and lapping up the scraps of praise on the rare occasions that he actually manages to do so. Or maybe his buffoonish persona at work doesn't spill over into his sexual tastes at all. But who cares? It's House's fantasy, and in his fantasy, it fucking does.

They're in his office with the blinds closed. Cameron and Foreman are... somewhere else. The whiteboard is blank, because they don't need the distraction of a case. House sits on one of the chairs whilst Chase kneels on the floor, furiously pumping his own cock as he's been ordered to. His shirt is open, his pants halfway down his thighs. His plump lips are moist and parted. His bare chest convulses with his ragged breaths, cheeks flushed with delight and shame. House has ordered him to look him right in the eye while he does this, and his gaze is cloudy, eyelids fluttering. He regards his most irritating duckling with a mixture of amusement and disgust, arms folded atop his cane, his cock straining against his jeans.

The tip of Chase's tongue pokes out, like it always does when he's close. It's kind of cute; well, as much as Chase can be cute. “Can I cum, Sir?” he pants.

“Hmm.” House lets the sound play on his lips, just to keep him in suspense. “You didn't say please. So I'm gonna go with no.”

“Please!” Chase's teeth clamp into his bottom lip, his strokes slowing down. He's tense, breaths catching in his throat with the effort of trying to hold off his orgasm.

“Too late. Stop.”

He does, with a miserable whine. Is he pouting? 

House's lips curl into a sneer. He props his cane against the table behind him and leans forward, revelling in the way Chase flinches a little; the whimper that flutters from his lips as he grabs the pretty boy's jaw between his thumb and forefinger. Chase is breathing hard, fit to explode with frustration, but he clenches his fists at his sides. Holds it in.

House pulls his head forward so their faces are mere centimetres apart. He catches a slight fear in Chase's eyes. Good. “What are you going to do to earn it?” he murmurs.

Chase exhales hard, through his nose. Could be arousal, or it could be embarrassment at what a blatant cockslut he is. Either is good with House. “I... I'm going to please you, Sir.”

“Is that so?” House widens his eyes with mock intrigue. “And how are you going to do that?”

“However you want me to, Sir.”

It's hot as hell, having Chase like this, so willing, so greedy for his approval. House can feel his own breaths quickening, mingling with Chase's in the quiet building. Quiet, because there's no one around. Cuddy walking in on this is not part of the fantasy, thank you very much. Well, not this one, anyway.

He moves his hand to run his fingertips along Chase's soft, pink lips, the bottom one slightly swollen from where he's sunk his own teeth in while pleasuring himself. “You'll use your mouth. Get on with it.”

Chase's face lights up, like he's been given an incredible gift. “Thank you, Sir.”

House leans back in the chair, lips twisting with contempt as he watches Chase fumble with his belt buckle, fingers slightly clumsy in his haste. “Dear God,” he drawls. “You're pathetic.”

And then Chase stops, just as he reaches House's zipper. House regards him with curiosity. Bratting now, are we? Fantasy Chase just took an interesting turn.

“House,” he says, in a voice no longer thick with the arousal of a few seconds ago. A voice that sounds annoyingly just like regular Chase. “This is weird.”

“You're damn right it's weird. But I need to get off, and this one usually does it for me.” House's hand cups the back of Chase's head, blonde hair so soft beneath his palm that he wonders if he's been using Cameron's conditioner. “Come on, go back to being slutty Chase. You're way less annoying with my cock down your throat.”

Chase narrows his eyes, but he doesn't look offended. More thoughtful. “You're distracted,” he says. “There's something on your mind.”

“Yeah. My leg hurts.” House reaches for his zipper himself, opening it all the way. The white of his boxers peeps through. “If you hadn't noticed, being in pain is kind of my thing.”

“No, it's not that.” Gently, Chase takes hold of the wrist at the back of his head, disentangling himself from House's grasp. “You know what it is. And, I don't think it's me you should be thinking about right now.”

Before House can respond, Chase vanishes, leaving him alone in his office. Well. What now?

**

Back to sad, soft cock, that's what. House growls, shaking out his cramping hand. At least it's a momentary distraction from his leg. What the hell was up with Fantasy Chase? He's going to be forbidden from coming for a month after that stunt.

He draws a breath. He was almost there when Chase started fiddling with his belt, then he'd gone floppier than a straw hat. Why? Is the pain really that bad? It's never bad enough to stop him from enjoying that little thought process. Unless his leg is starting to get worse...

No, it's never good to wonder about that. Chasing it away, House palms his slit idly, an involuntary breath leaving him at the friction, trying to focus his mind. His subconscious clearly doesn't believe he should be thinking about Chase. Then who?

**

Cuddy's kink hadn't been difficult to figure out either. The prim, demure types are almost always into the edgier stuff, and the neurotic types like to give up control. And Cuddy ticks both boxes.

He likes this one to start with them arguing.

“For God's sake, House,” Cuddy is yelling, leaning against her her desk, doing that thing where she puts her hand on her hip. Her way of trying to assert her authority. “I am not going to stand back and let you give an 85-year-old man electro convulsive therapy! Have you completely lost your mind?”

House hears her words, but their weight doesn't really register. She's wearing one of her less subtle blouses, a crimson colour, a hint of lacy black peeking out from beneath the low cut. It's distracting him. “Nice bra,” he says. “There, I complimented you. In return, will you let me shock the guy?”

Now she's doing the thing where she presses her lips together, the ever growing creases on her forehead deepening as she regards him in disbelief. “No,” she says. "Try something else."

House starts advancing towards her desk. She breaks his gaze for only a teency half fraction of a millisecond, but House doesn't miss a beat. She's getting nervous.

He says nothing as he moves closer.

“I mean, what's your rationale?” she continues, but her voice lacks its bossy gusto this time. “What possibly...”

Cuddy trails off as she steps back, but her desk is in the way. Her eyes shoot to the side, as if she's thinking about darting out of his way, but she doesn't move as he closes in. She never does.

“What good,” she whispers, swallowing hard as House presses his body against hers and snakes an arm around her waist, “would it do?”

She doesn't expect him to answer. They both know that. She's just grasping uselessly for the idea that she has some control over the situation. House doesn't smile; not quite, as he lets his cane drop to the floor. 

Cuddy does.

She moans a little as House's hand finds her throat. She licks her lips; a wanton gesture on anyone else, but Cuddy somehow manages to make it elegant. He presses into her, so she can feel his erection against her stomach; her eyes widen, like she's shocked. Surprised at knowing what she does to him. But she isn't. Can't be. She knows she's sexy. She's used to getting what she wants, just like he is. And that's why they clash.

And boy, is she getting what she wants now. As she's subdued by the grip on her throat, House seizes the opportunity to move his hand up further, engulfing the lower half of her face and tightening his grip until her mouth and nose are crushed against his palm. Cuddy's hands fly to his chest, her body betraying her desire as her survival instinct kicks in, but she's not really trying to stop him. She makes a keening, wheezing sound against him, and House's attempt to bite back his moan of desire is futile. This isn't going to last very long today.

Cuddy's eyes are aflame, wide, darkening; he stares her down, shuddering as her hips begin to jerk against him, the friction almost too much. She starts to writhe in his grip, curled fingers making clawing motions against his t-shirt. He watches for a moment before relenting, moving his hand, watching her gasp down a hungry breath. She's flushed and panting, slackening against him with relief as her body fights for the air it was deprived of. Relief, and longing. 

Breathing hard, House manoeuvrers her up onto her desk with some difficulty, and in between grabs for oxygen she assists him. She holds his shoulders in a vice grip as his hand slides beneath her skirt, a shudder escaping her at the contact. House leans against the desk to support his leg as Cuddy's thighs part around him. He wastes no time in slipping his fingers beneath the elastic of her panties, chasing the soft heat beneath. Lace, he notes at the soft, flimsy texture. Just like her bra. Does the colour match too?

_Not important._

He meets her eyes as his fingertips brush her clit, watching the way her mouth slackens as she moans quietly for him. His cock is aching, begging him to tear off her underwear and fuck her until she cries his name in ecstasy. Fantasy Cuddy does that sometimes. Right now, though, she bucks her hips with an impatient whine. She wants more, but she'll never beg like Fantasy Chase does. She's far too classy for that. With a grin, House reaches for her throat.

But then Cuddy makes an exasperated sound and shakes her head, and House falters, a frown crossing his mouth. Fantasy Cuddy is always down for choking.“What's this?” he demands. “Suddenly overcome with whatever the Jewish version of Catholic guilt is?”

Cuddy pointedly clamps her thighs back together, and House tears away his hand to avoid getting it trapped between them. She looks away.

“What is it?” House presses, confused. “You know, it's kind of hard to fantasise about you when you won't play along. Keep this up and you won't be invited back.”

“I was just thinking,” she says, still not meeting his eyes, “that you deserve to be choked more than I do right now.”

“What kind of asshole chokes cripples?” House takes the cue to step back as she slides off the desk. Then he sighs. “Okay, you win. If you promise to get me off I won't fry anyone's brains ever again.”

“Do you expect me to believe that?” Cuddy adjusts her skirt, and just like that she's demure and businesslike again, as if all traces of lust have evaporated. “There's something on your mind,” she adds, as she bends down to reach for his discarded cane. He stares at her, bewildered, as she hands it back to him. “That's why you're in pain. Stop masturbating over your colleagues and deal with the real issue.”

“What the hell are you...”

He cuts himself off as he realises that she's already walking out of the room, her form fading with every step. As she reaches the door, she disintegrates completely.

House looks around, mystified. God, Cuddy's office is drab.

**

_Ugh._

House doesn't need Fantasy Cuddy and Fantasy Chase to tell him he's distracted. Of course there's something on his mind: he's in pain. The Vicodin isn't working. That's huge. 

His cock has died its second humiliating death of the morning, limp again in his hand. Damn Cuddy. She's so obsessed with there needing to be a reason when his leg gets worse. As for Chase, God knows what spooked him.

He wants to scream. He can't remember the last time it was this bad. 

House sighs in frustration. Well, if his fantasies aren't up to the task this morning, then what about his memories?

**

House didn't have to put much effort into sussing out Wilson's kink. Red-faced, eyes to his lap, Wilson had quietly told House two weeks into their relationship exactly what it was. Worse still – or better still? – he'd asked House to explore it with him. 

House had never done anything like it before. Still, he merely shrugged and said, “okay.” Just like that, like it was no big deal. Like he wasn't trying to hide his excitement at the thought, along with the slight pang of fear he was loathe to acknowledge.

It's easy to conjure up the most recent image, because he isn't creating it himself. Last night, before they'd gone to bed, House had Wilson pinned to the bedroom floor by his wrists, huffing with exertion as he fucked him with rough, erratic thrusts. Wilson was writhing against him, struggling in his grip, but not properly. He never did when it got to this point. He was too busy enjoying himself.

“Stop,” Wilson moaned, as he arched his back to meet House's thrusts. “Don't, please...”

“Why not?” House was trying to keep his voice cold, even, through his accelerated breaths. “You like it.” 

Wilson whimpered, closing his eyes. “I don't... mmm-” he gasped, “want this.” His mouth opened wide, a cry of bliss escaping him.

House leaned forward, leering over him. “Then why are you so hard? You... you... whore.”

Wilson released a shuddering moan. Well, that worked. House was getting better at the dialogue. He'd felt fucking stupid the first couple of times they'd done this. 

Wilson's shirt had been ripped open, an old one he'd worn for the purpose of this scene. His bare chest glistened with sweat from the effort of trying to fight House off earlier, his usually perfectly groomed hair dishevelled from where House had tugged on it to subdue him. He looked beautiful. House groaned as he quickened his pace. He was nearing release.

He needed to bring Wilson there too. Struggling both of Wilson's wrists into one hand, he continued to hold them above his head as he reached for his lover's cock, iron hard and leaking between their stomachs. Wilson whined at his touch, making a very half-hearted show of wiggling his hips to shy away from him.

“I'm going to cum inside you.” House was losing his breath through his taunts, concentrating on keeping his rhythm in tandem with his strokes of Wilson's cock. “And there's nothing you can do about it...”

Wilson clenched around him with a cry. He bucked into House's hand as he came hard, his release spilling onto his stomach. Witnessing his ecstasy sent House over the edge only seconds later, halting inside Wilson with a ragged, primitive growl; somewhere amidst the white noise of orgasm, he felt Wilson's hand find his own. He grasped Wilson's fingers weakly, squeezing, the tenderness, the contrast, of such a gesture, utterly dizzying.

He didn't let go of his hand as he pulled out, biting back a grimace at the sudden bite of pain, no longer distracted from his leg's protests by the bliss of being inside Wilson. Whatever. It was worth it. Exhausted, he collapsed beside him on the floor, burying his head in Wilson's sweat slick neck as they wiggled into a one-armed embrace, trapping their interlaced hands between them.

For a while, they didn't speak, recovering from the intensity of the last hour. Then Wilson giggled. “Wow,” he said, still panting. “What is wrong with us?”

“'Us' nothing.” House grunted and shifted slightly for comfort, trying to catch his breath too as Wilson peppered soft kisses along his jaw. “You're the one corrupting me with your sexual deviancy. Go see a shrink.” 

“Oh, please.” Wilson's lips were so gentle, so soft, his breath tickling his ear as he spoke. “I've seen your dirty movie collection. There's not a single vanilla title in there.”

House couldn't hold back a grin at this. He pulled Wilson closer as he murmured, “you're okay, right?”

“Fantastic,” he replied.

“Good.”

He felt Wilson's hand combing through his hair, so tender. Listened to his breathing, slowly returning to its normal rate. 

Then the bastard had gone and said it. “I love you, House.”

Shit.

**

_Fuck._

House aborts it there. Not just because he's gone soft again, but because he doesn't want his mind's built in projector to play what happened next. Doesn't want to see himself and Wilson lying there, tangled on the floor, as the words rolled in the air above them, untouched, their weight increasing every second they went unacknowledged; doesn't want to remember the way he swallowed, mouth like sand, vocal cords paralysed. That helpless, resigned feeling, as he realised that he was really going to do this: really was just going to let Wilson drown in the silence.

A few seconds, or moments, or perhaps even a minute passed before House gathered the strength to hoist himself upright, keeping his eyes lowered to avoid Wilson's face. He wouldn't have been able to bear it, that crestfallen, confused look he gets every time House hurts him. Worse still, his face could be shining crimson with embarrassment, disbelief at just how much he'd forgotten himself, his lips tightly pressed together to prevent any other post coital declarations escaping them. 

Nothing more was said. They took separate showers. When House returned from the bathroom, Wilson was curled up in bed, facing the wall away from him. House knew he'd be pretending to be asleep, and Wilson would know that House knew he was pretending, but tonight House had absolutely no right to call him out on it.

Why did Wilson need to say everything? Why did he have to choose such loaded words, ones that were heavy with the expectation that they would be returned? House can only imagine what he might say next - “will you marry me, House?” Or, “honey, what do you think about Caleb for the middle name of our first son?”

House lies back on the couch. His vision blurs a little. Is the pain even worse, or is he imagining it? In the early days, when it was utterly consuming him like this, House would bury his face in a pillow and scream until he was so exhausted that his body would force him to sleep. The reprieve was always brief, but it worked. He can't do that now. What if Wilson hears him and wakes up, rushes in, his face full of concern and his arms ready to hold him, stroke his hair until he at least feels less alone with this, even if he doesn't feel better? How could he have so casually considered waking him up earlier? 

House bats away the thoughts. Okay. No more Wilson, for now. No more sexy memories that morph into reminders of how easy it is to hurt him with his inadequacies in the human being department. He forces his hand to his crotch again, but he's losing hope of ever getting off this morning. Desperate times, and all that noise. Time for the hard stuff.

**

Lots of people hate House. Right now, even _House_ hates House a little bit. 

But House loves hate fucking. Or at least he thinks he would, if he ever had the opportunity to try it. Really, the whole concept is just a utopian dream, because nobody would really fuck anyone they truly hated, right? Maybe that's what makes the fantasy so attractive. And the fantasy is never so attractive as it is when House needs to somehow vindicate someone he's hurt.

Enter Foreman. No one hates him more than Foreman does. And if Foreman has a kink, it's probably something to do with fucking House up.

They're in one of the control rooms, the window looking out onto an empty MRI scanner. Why they'd have any business being in there with no patient innards to ogle on the screens, House has no idea, but it's not a requirement that these scenes make sense. Anyway, it's not even logistically possible in reality for him to be bent over the desk as he is, pants round his ankles, face pressed against the cold surface. Too many computers and technical doohickey things in the way. 

Foreman holds him down with the weight of his torso, one hand firmly gripping the back of his neck, the other pinning both of House's hands behind his back. He can feel his cock bobbing against his stomach, the tip brushing the thin material of his shirt as Foreman moves inside him, grunting and cursing. House wishes he could bite down on his hand to stifle his moans. It's unnerving to know that Foreman is aware of just how much he's enjoying this; how he's getting off on being overpowered, helpless, fucked without a single thought for his pleasure.

Foreman thinks he deserves it. House knows he does. 

“You always have to keep pushing it,” Foreman growls, with a particularly vicious thrust that sends House's eyes rolling to the back of his head. “I warned you.”

“Oh, is that what you were doing?” House bites back a grin. He can't help himself from goading Foreman like this. It's just way too much fun. “I thought you were just trying to beat Chase in a “who-can-look-the-most-pathetic-standing-up-for-themselves” contest.” 

Foreman snarls. The fingers digging into the back of his neck snake upwards, curling in his hair. The pain crackles against his scalp as Foreman jerks his head up. He fails to hold back a little whimper. He can see their vague reflections in the window, ghostlike, as they always are in plain glass. Still, Foreman looks _pissed._

“It's you that's pathetic,” he says, voice heavy with rage and lust. “Do you see yourself right now, getting fucked like a cheap whore?”

“Yes,” House gasps. “If I'd have known, I would have worn lipstick. Do you like it when I look pretty for you, baby?”

He anticipates – maybe hopes – that Foreman will hit him, or lower his head and sink his teeth into his neck, until he whines like a wounded animal and pleads for mercy. Instead, Foreman gives a rough tug on his wrists, and before he knows it his hands are flat on his own ass cheeks. He makes no attempt to tear them away.

The Foreman in the window grins wickedly. “That's it. Hold yourself open for me, House. If you move your hands even a centimetre, I'll stop.”

House really thinks about it; thinks about just waving a finger, pushing it just a little. But Foreman doesn't make empty threats, and if he stops, leaves him here, hard and wanting, he thinks he'll die. Instead, he closes his eyes; savours the pain, the ragged ecstasy, of Foreman's fist twisted cruelly in his hair, his cock slamming into him, pushing him closer to the edge with every thrust. Lets himself groan with abandon, his ability to think of things to push Foreman even further compromised by the orgasm building within him.

What follows is barely audible, but he hears it. Instantly wishes he hadn't: “You don't deserve Wilson.”

_Oh, for God's sake._ “Don't you dare,” he says. “Just... don't. Not now...”

“Talk to him.” 

And then Foreman has stopped thrusting, standing still above him. His face has softened, and he has that sickening look in his eyes that he gets when he's trying to be nice. 

House arches back in a rueful attempt to keep fucking himself. Foreman smirks, and he stops, growling in frustration. “Later. Just... finish this!”

“No way.” There's a slick popping sound as Foreman pulls out. “Talk to Wilson, or we're never doing this again.”

“We don't really do it anyway!” House yells, as the desk melts away beneath him.

**

House punches the backrest of the couch in frustration. Fantasy Foreman is meant to be an asshole - just like real life Foreman, really - but things aren't supposed to get that personal.

The sun is up now, the living room painted in daylight. House hears a rustle of sheets from the bedroom, and freezes; glances down at the cock hanging out of his pants. Waits for footsteps. He lies still in the silence for a good minute, cursing his leg, before he's able to convince himself that Wilson probably just turned over in bed. How annoying that he doesn't snore. At least then he could know for sure that he's asleep.

House gives a thought to the Vicodin bottle and considers taking another. He's dissuaded, maybe even slightly frightened, by the thought that doing so might not even help. But if it did? Well, he might be a bit loopier than usual for the day, but chances are no one will even notice. His level of insanity tends to fluctuate anyway. Then again, he has been so much more amenable recently; enough that people are commenting. Maybe it would be obvious after all.

Still, if he turns up grumpy and high, they'll all just think he's back to normal. Think he broke up with Wilson, or something, which is maybe even a possibility. At least in a few hours, he'll know for sure. At least nobody will try to console him if it happens. Everyone so far has been polite enough to play along with the pretence that they aren't together, so hopefully the facade will spill into the realisation that they've broken up. And then life will just tick along as usual.

_Would he really break up with me over this?_

House doesn't know. All he does know is that world falling apart be damned, he needs these endorphins.

He needs to bring in the absolute last resort. 

**

Fantasy Cameron comes to him in various forms. Sometimes she's a stripper, g-string and everything, gyrating and grinding on his lap as she smiles and eases her bra straps off her shoulders in a slow, teasing manner. On other occasions, they're at work and she's her regular, white-coated self, except she's not really, because she's under his desk, sucking him off with the mastery of a pornstar while he listens to the Rolling Stones through headphones.

House rarely lets himself have _this_ particular fantasy, because he's not sure if it's even completely sexual. But it's another one that usually works, even if he doesn't like to think too much about why. He may not think twice about jacking off to thoughts of degrading Chase, smothering Cuddy, pretending to force Wilson, getting his comeuppance from Foreman; but this one is so bizarre he doesn't even know where to begin.

They're in his bedroom. Cameron is naked, as is he, and she's straddling him on his bed. She won't let him be on top because she's concerned about his leg; he doesn't mind, but she insists, and he lets her. Lets her worry about him. Lets her care.

She rides him slowly, their palms pressed together, fingers interlaced. She's moaning, her eyes filled with tenderness, and House holds her gaze, doesn't break it for a moment. Her hair, loose around her shoulders, shines in the gentle daylight; there's a pink flush in her chest, her face. He can see the shadow of a smudge around her mouth, lipstick dislodged from the gentle kisses she'd pressed to his mouth as she'd removed his clothes, caressing bare skin as she went. He can feel the ghost of her hands along his body even now. He feels exposed, vulnerable, at the intimacy and rawness of this slow, deliberate lovemaking, not to mention the knowledge that she's getting off on the sheer act of it. Because that's Cameron's kink: caring for the damaged and broken.

She gives his hands a gentle squeeze. “I want to make you feel good, Greg,” she says softly, as she rolls her hips and gasps. “I want to show you that you're worth it. That you're perfect just as you are.”

House doesn't know what to say, so he just releases her hands and wraps his arms around her waist. He can feel the sweat gathering at the small of her bare back, how soft and alluring her skin feels against his touch. He pulls her in closer, and she leans down to plant a kiss on his forehead.

“You make _me_ feel good,” she whispers, keeping her pace steady, even. The walls of her cunt feel so moist and hot, the friction around his cock causing him to exhale hard and buck up against her. She whines in response. “So _good_, Greg. You're doing everything right. Just relax. Do you like this? ” 

He nods. It's that feeling again, of words trapped in his throat. Words he can't evoke, no matter how much he wants to summon them. But Cameron doesn't mind. She lets him be, as she strokes his face and looks at him with that same mixture of adoration and sadness he's so used to seeing. In real life, he ignores it. Tells himself that she secretly hates him as much as the others do, just to make her easier to deal with. With Fantasy Cameron, though, it's nice to be... well, liked. Wanted. He may not like her back, but he likes her in some sense, or he wouldn't keep her around. Here, he can allow that. As for the sadness... well, sometimes it's nice to have someone feel sad for you too. Not that he could ever allow such a thing in reality.

“Greg,” she gasps, pressing a kiss to his chin that makes him shiver and draw her closer to him. “Oh, God, Greg... listen...”

He does. Though he's realised where this is going before she's even finished her sentence.

“You need to let Wilson do this instead of me.” Cameron is looking at him earnestly, as she stops moving on top of him. “Don't you?”

House exhales hard, feeling his self-indulgent boner deflate inside of her. He lets her go, his arms falling against the bed in defeat. “How the hell am I supposed to get off when you all keep bringing this up?”

Cameron gives him that look, that one she gets when she's simultaneously disappointed in him and pitying him. It's incredibly unsexy, no matter how naked she is, no matter how firm those astounding breasts are. “How do you think Wilson would feel if he knew you were fantasising about all of us?” she asks.

“Oh, God.” He swivels his eyes to the ceiling, fixing his gaze on the bland stretch of white. Yes, it's sulky, but he feels like sulking. “It's a fantasy, Cameron. That's the point. Doesn't mean I don't want him.”

“But why keep fantasising when you have someone to do all this with now?” she says, and House feels as though he could choke her. Just like Cuddy. _Heh._

“Like Wilson would ever fuck me in the MRI control room,” he murmurs.

He continues to avoid her eyes, but he can imagine the look of surprised amusement on her face. “Which one of us does that?”

“None of your damn business.”

“Chase?”

House scowls up at the ceiling. “You can't be serious. Get off me.”

Cameron hesitates a moment, then does. House rolls onto his side, pulling the wrinkled comforter up to his waist as he watches her get dressed, back into that purple low-cut dress she always wears in these fantasies, only to quickly discard. Why purple, he has no idea.

“It's not just sex, anyway,” he feels the need to say. “And given that you're interfering, as usual, I'm guessing you know that.”

“I do.” 

"Busybody," he mutters.

Cameron ignores him, holding onto the edge of the bed to steady herself as she battles a foot into one of her high heels. “What I don't know, is why you're so intent on sabotaging it.”

House feels something lurch in his stomach. He wants to tell Cameron that he doesn't get it either. Wants to grab her and wrench her into bed with him, make her hold him until it all goes away. Just as Wilson, non-fantasy, real-life Wilson, would give up everything to do if he would just fucking _let him in._ Batting away the thought, he gives a nonchalant shrug instead. Coats his voice in bitter sarcasm as he manages, “I dunno. Maybe it's my deep seated childhood abandonment wound.”

Cameron rolls her eyes. “You're impossible.”

“And you're annoying.”

Fully dressed, Cameron leans down and brushes her lips against his. When she pulls away, she's smiling. “Goodbye, House.”

Then she's gone too.

**

“House?”

He opens his eyes to Wilson standing in the doorway, still in his pyjamas. His eyes are moist and bleary from yawning. In his newly awake daze, it takes him a moment to realise what House has been doing.

Is he blushing? “Oh, God. Okay. Um...” He darts a glance to the hallway. “I-I'll come back...”

“Relax, Jimmy,” House says, though blushing a little himself as it sinks in that he's been caught not only masturbating, but with a disgusting lack of excitement about it. He disguises it with a scowl. “I believe you're acquainted with my penis. Are you gonna stand there gawping or are you gonna come and lend me a hand?”

It's his way of testing the water; of asking Wilson if they're okay. He trusts him to understand.

Wilson hesitates for a moment, then gives an exasperated sigh, heading over to the couch. House realises he's been holding his breath. The relief as Wilson sinks down on the floor next to him is so exquisite that he wants to hold it forever.

He wants to hold Wilson.

As a hand that's not his own reaches for his cock, as Wilson smiles down at him and sets to getting to work, House reaches out to stop him. Wilson looks surprised. “What is it?”

House grasps for words, stupid words that won't come. He looks away.

“House?” He lets his body soften as Wilson's arm comes down over his shoulder, those gentle fingers brushing his hair, just like last night. He sounds concerned now, and House thinks about how undeserving he is of such warmth. “What's the matter?”

He needs to be strong. Gently holding his leg and grunting with the fucking agony of it, he moves to sit himself upright on the couch. The movement makes him flinch, hard, and Wilson notices. House meets Wilson's eyes, so soft, so caring, as they bristle with realisation. “You're in a lot of pain, aren't you? That's why you were...”

“Forget that,” House interrupts. He places his hands on Wilson's face, stroking his cheeks with the pads of his thumbs. “Listen... last night...”

A flash of hurt passes through Wilson's eyes, pain that he's caused, and House can feel himself crumbling. He falters; swallows, and Wilson waits patiently, because he's trying to understand. 

“I...” He turns his head away for a moment, then forces himself to look back. “I have a rough time... saying it. But what you said... I do. I always have. And I want you to know that.”

For a moment, Wilson looks relieved; the tension in his features slackens, giving way to something close to joy. House wants to continue, find a way of telling him he struggles with another word too, one that begins with “s”, but before he can think about how to present it Wilson's mouth is on his. House sighs into his kiss, at the lips delicately mauling his own, and it's almost enough to help him drift away, just for a moment; to leave the pain behind, in the past with last night's grave fuck up. He can tell from Wilson's tender expression as he pulls away that all is forgiven. Why hadn't he just said this last night? Why...?

“How bad is the pain?” Wilson asks, snapping him out of the thought process. Probably for the best.

“Well, it's...” House hears his voice crack a little. He clears his throat, as if some wayward phlegm were the problem, and prays that Wilson will pretend to believe him. He shrugs, not trusting himself to speak again.

It's okay though, because Wilson simply hoists himself up on the couch beside him, and as he pulls him into his arms House lets himself disintegrate; closes his eyes, savouring the coolness of Wilson's bare chest against his cheek, the soothing hand running up and down his back, the murmured reminders that he's here and it's going to be okay. For the first time ever, House doesn't shrug him off and insist that he's fine. Doesn't try to think about something, anything else, doesn't try to stop himself from falling apart. This is Wilson, and Wilson loves him. He said so. Best of all, he's real.

“You should have woken me up,” Wilson murmurs, and he's not annoyed, not chiding; not demanding that House needs him, or trying to overwhelm him. Just letting him know he's here.

And House nods. “Yeah. I know that now.”


End file.
